“She’s a cold one, she is, and she won’t want to be having no competition for her man’s affections. And we all know how the master is about Anna. She’s been his two eyes, and Lady Muck won’t like that at all.” Mrs. Carruthers wagged her finger at no one in particular.
“What if he marries her?” Mary asked, her fear raising the question they all wanted to ask.
“Then there’s trouble for all of us,” Mrs. Carruthers repeated grimly, “and there ain’t no two ways about it.”
• • •
Three months later, Mr. Lisle called his servants into the dining room to speak to them. Elizabeth Delancey stood next to him as he announced proudly to his household staff that the two of them were to be married as soon as the wedding could be arranged.
The mood that night in the kitchen was subdued. Each one of the servants knew their comfortable world was about to change. As the new mistress of the house, Elizabeth Delancey would, on her marriage, take charge of the running of the house. And the staff would be answerable to her.
“D-do you like Mrs. D-Delancey?” Anna asked Mary quietly as she read her a story before bedtime.
“Well now, I’d say I hardly know her, but I’m sure if Uncle thinks she’s grand, she must be.”
“She told me my speech was f-funny and I looked . . .” Anna searched her mind for the word. “Scraggy. W-what is scraggy, Mary?”
“Ah, it means you are a pretty little thing, pet,” Mary comforted her as she tucked her into bed.
“She said that I must call her ‘Aunt’ when she b-becomes Uncle’s wife.” Anna lay down on her pillows, her huge dark eyes nervous. “She won’t b-become my mother, will she, Mary? I mean, I know you’re not really my m-mother, but I feel like you are.”
“No, pet. Don’t you be worrying your head over that, you know I’ll always be here to take care of you. Night, night, sleep tight.” Mary kissed Anna gently on the forehead.
As she turned off the light and began to leave the room, a voice came through the darkness.
“Mary?”
“What is it, pet?”
“I don’t think she l-likes me.”
“Don’t be daft! How can anyone not like you? Now, you stop your worrying and close your eyes.”
• • •
The wedding took place in a church near Elizabeth Delancey’s parents’ home in Sussex. Mary was asked to bring Anna to sit in the congregation. The bride’s nieces performed the role of bridesmaids.
Cadogan House held its breath for a month while the newlyweds took a honeymoon in the south of France. The day they were due back, Mrs. Carruthers ordered the house to be cleaned and polished from top to bottom. “I will not have that woman suggesting I don’t know how to take care of her new home,” she muttered to her staff.
Mary put Anna in her best dress to greet her uncle and her new aunt, her heart heavy with a sense of unease.
Mr. and Mrs. Lisle arrived home at teatime. The servants lined up in the hall to greet them and clapped reticently. Their new mistress had a few words with each of them. Anna stood with Mary expectantly at the end of the queue, waiting to perform her perfect curtsy. Mrs. Lisle simply nodded at Anna then moved on and into the drawing room. Mr. Lisle followed suit.
“She wants to see each of us individually tomorrow,” Mrs. Carruthers huffed later. “And you too, Mary. Gawd help us all!”
• • •
One by one the next morning, the servants filed into the drawing room to meet their new mistress. Mary stood nervously outside, awaiting her turn.
“Come,” said the voice, and Mary stepped inside. “Good morning, Mary,” said Elizabeth Lisle.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lisle. May I be offering you my personal congratulations on your marriage?”
“Thank you.” Her thin lips did not curl into a smile. “I wish to inform you that, from now on, any decisions regarding Mr. Lisle’s ward will be taken by myself. Mr. Lisle is very busy at the Foreign Office, and it is not acceptable for him to be bothered with the details of a child.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lisle.”
“I’d prefer it if you call me ‘ma’am,’ Mary. That is what I am used to in my own home.”
“Yes . . . ma’am.”
Elizabeth Lisle swept over to the desk, on which were laid out the ledgers containing the monthly accounts. “I shall also be taking over these,”—she indicated the ledgers—“from Mrs. Carruthers. It seems to me, having studied them, that there has been sloppiness in the use of finances. I will be putting a halt to this immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For example . . .” Mrs. Lisle pulled her horn-rimmed glasses, hung by a chain around her neck, up on to her nose to read the ledger. “It says here that Anna’s costs are running at over a hundred shillings per month. Can you explain where this money goes?”
“Well, ma’am, Anna has two ballet lessons a week, costing forty shillings a month. She also has a governess to come in and help her with her lessons every morning at a cost of fifty shillings a month. Then there are her clothes, and—”
“Enough!” snapped Mrs. Lisle. “It is patently clear to me that the child has been indulged and the expenses you talk of are unnecessary. I will be speaking to Mr. Lisle about them later tonight. The child is eight, is she not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I would hardly think it necessary for her to be taking two ballet lessons a week.” Mrs. Lisle raised her eyebrows and sighed as an indication of her dissatisfaction. “You may go, Mary.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
• • •
“B-but, Mary, why can’t I go twice a week to my ballet lessons? One isn’t enough!” Anna’s eyes were full of anguish.
“Perhaps you will again, pet, but for now, Uncle can’t afford the money it costs.”
“B-but he’s just g-got a new p-posting! And everyone in the kitchen was talking of the big diamond necklace he’s just b-bought Aunt. How c-can he not have ten shillings a week if he c-can b-buy that?’ Emotion making her stutter worse, Anna burst into tears.
“Now, now, pet.” Mary put her arms around the child. “The nuns always told me to be grateful for what I was getting. At least you have one lesson still.”
“B-but it’s not enough! It’s not enough!”
“Well now, you will just have to practice more in the meantime. Please try not to go upsetting yourself.”
But Anna was inconsolable, just as Mary had known she would be.
• • •
After his marriage, Lawrence Lisle was rarely at home. When he was, Anna would wait in an agony of anticipation for him to call her into the drawing room. Mary’s heart broke as she watched the disappointment on the child’s face when he didn’t.
“He doesn’t l-love me any more. Uncle doesn’t l-love me. He loves Aunt. And does everything she t-tells him.”
The kitchen was in full agreement with Anna.
“She’s got him where she wants him, good and proper,” sighed Mrs. Carruthers. “I didn’t think the master had it in him to be so cruel,” she added. “Poor little mite. He hardly speaks to Anna these days, doesn’t even spare a glance for her, from what I’ve seen.”
“Probably get a clip round the ear from the mistress if he did!” put in Nancy. “I reckon he’s as scared of her as we are. She’s never satisfied, that one, always finding fault with whatever I do. If it continues, I’ve half a mind to leave. There’s other employment for women these days, and well paid too.”
“I’m of the same mind,” agreed Mrs. Carruthers. “My friend Elsie tells me they’re looking for a housekeeper just around the Square. I might go and apply.”
Mary listened to them wistfully. She knew that leaving would never be an option for her.
The household staff lived in a constant state of tension, knowing whatever they did and however hard they worked would never be enough to satisfy the new Mrs. Lisle. The parlormaid left, and then the cook. Smith, the butler, decided it
was time to retire. Mary did her best to keep herself and Anna out of the way, going about their business as quietly and invisibly as possible. But, often, the call would come from the drawing room. Mary was not allowed to accompany Anna and would hover nervously outside waiting for her to emerge, usually tearstained. Whatever Elizabeth Lisle could find to criticize in Anna, she did. From her halting speech to the bow in Anna’s hair being untied and dirty footprints up the stairs, Anna got the blame.
“She h-hates me, she hates me,” Anna cried on Mary’s shoulder one night.
“She doesn’t hate you, pet, that’s just the way she is. With everybody.”
“It’s not a very n-nice ‘way,’ is it, Mary?”
Mary couldn’t disagree.
15
In the autumn of 1927, when Anna was nine, Lawrence Lisle left for his new, permanent posting as British Consul in Bangkok. Elizabeth Lisle was to follow him in three months’ time.
“Well, we got to look on the bright side—at least we only have to suffer a few more weeks of her,” said Mrs. Carruthers. “With any luck, they won’t be back for years.”
“Maybe she’ll die of some tropical disease and never come back,” sniffed Nancy.
• • •
Lawrence Lisle offered a curt, unaffectionate good-bye to Anna as his wife stood next to him, watching his every move. Then it was Elizabeth Lisle’s turn to say good-bye to her husband.
Lawrence put his arms around her. “So, darling, I will see you in Bangkok.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “And don’t worry about anything here. Rest assured, I will make sure the house runs smoothly in your absence.”
• • •
Two days later, Mary was called into the drawing room.
“Mary.” Elisabeth Lisle attempted a tight smile. “I’ve asked you here to tell you that your services in this house are no longer required. Due to my imminent departure to join my husband in Bangkok, it has been decided by me that it’s best if Anna enters a boarding school. Mr. Lisle and I will be in Bangkok for at least the next five years and this house is to be closed up. It is a waste of money keeping the staff on while we are away. I understand that you have been with Anna for nine years and it will be a wrench for both of you. Therefore you will be paid a month in lieu. I will be taking Anna down to her new school at the end of the week, and you will leave this house on the same day. I will tell her tomorrow she is to go away to school. But I think it is perhaps best if you say nothing to her for now about you leaving. We don’t want the child becoming hysterical.”
Mary heard a ringing in her ears. “But—but, ma’am, surely I must be allowed to say good-bye? I—can’t—have her thinking I’m abandoning her. Please, Mrs. Lisle . . . I mean, ma’am,” Mary pleaded.
“Anna will be fine. You are not, after all, her real mother. She will be with girls of her own age and class,” Elizabeth Lisle added pointedly. “I am sure she will cope.”
“What will happen to her during the holidays?”
“Like many orphaned children, or in fact children whose parents are residing abroad, she will simply stay at school.”
“You mean the school will be her new home?” Mary was aghast.
“If you wish to phrase it like that, yes.”
“May I at least be writing to her?”
“Under the circumstances, I forbid it. I feel it will be too unsettling and upsetting for her to receive letters from you.”
“Then”—Mary knew she mustn’t cry—“may I know where you’re taking her?”
“I think it is best that you don’t. Then you will not be tempted to contact her. I have organized everything she will need for her new school. There is nothing more you need to do other than name her clothes, and pack her trunk and your own belongings.” Elizabeth Lisle rose. “You must understand, Mary, that a child in the care of Mr. Lisle and myself cannot spend her life being brought up by servants. She must learn manners and decorum to enable her to become a lady.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary choked the words out.
“You may go, Mary.”
Mary walked toward the door then stopped. “What about her ballet lessons? Do they do ballet at her new school? She is so talented . . . everybody says . . . and Mr. Lisle was so very keen—”
“As his wife, and acting ward of the child while my husband is abroad,” Elizabeth cut in, “I think it is up to me to know my husband’s thoughts. And what is best for Anna.”
Mary knew it was pointless saying any more. She turned and fled the room.
• • •
The following few days passed in a miasma of misery. Unable to say or do anything to warn Anna of her own imminent departure, Mary did her best to comfort the child as she sewed name labels on her uniform and organized the trunk she would be taking with her to her new school.
“I don’t w-want to g-go away to school, Mary. I don’t w-want to leave you and all the other servants and my b-ballet lessons.”
“I know you don’t, pet, but it’s what Uncle and Aunt think is best for you. And you might be enjoying the company of other girls of your age.”
“Why do I need them w-when I have you and all my other friends in the kitchen here? Mary, I’m frightened. Please tell Aunt not to make me g-go. I promise I won’t be any trouble,” Anna begged. “P-please ask her to let me stay!” Mary put her arms around the child as she sobbed pitifully into her shoulder. “You will tell the Princess I’ll be b-back in the holidays, w-won’t you? Tell her I’ll still keep practicing hard at school and I w-won’t let her down.”
“ ’Course I will, pet.”
“And the time w-will pass quite quickly, won’t it? It’s not long until the holidays and I’m b-back here w-with you, is it?”
Mary held her own tears in check as she saw the child trying to reassure herself in the face of the inevitable. “No, pet, it’s not.”
“And you’ll be here w-waiting for me, won’t you, Mary? What w-will you do when I’m gone?” Anna raised an eyebrow. “You might get awfully b-bored.”
“Well now, I might just take myself on a little holiday.”
“Well, make sure you’re b-back for when I arrive home from school, won’t you?”
“I will, pet, I promise.”
• • •
At nine o’clock on the morning on which Anna was to leave, there was a knock on Mary’s door.
“Come in.”
Anna appeared wearing her new school uniform, bought with room to grow into. Her slight body looked drowned in material and her heart-shaped face was pinched and white.
“Aunt says I must c-come to say g-good-bye to you. She said she didn’t want a show d-downstairs.”
Mary nodded and walked toward her, held her in her arms and said, “Do me proud now, won’t you, pet?”
“I’ll t-try, Mary, but I’m so fr-frightened.” Anna’s stutter had become progressively worse over the past week.
“There now, a couple of days and you’ll be loving it, I’m sure.”
“No, I w-won’t, I know I’m g-going to h-hate it,” came the muffled response into her shoulder. “You w-will write to me every day? W-won’t you?”
“Of course I will.” Mary pulled Anna gently away from her, looked at her and smiled. “Now, you’d better be on your way.”
Anna nodded. “I know. G-Good-bye, Mary.”
“Good-bye, pet.”
Mary watched as Anna turned away from her and walked slowly toward the door. When she reached it, she paused then turned back. “W-when the other g-girls ask me about my mother, I’m g-going to tell them about you. Do you th-think that’s all right?”
“Oh, Anna . . .” Mary could not keep the emotion from her voice any longer. “If that’s what you’d like to do, I’m sure ’tis grand.”
Anna nodded silently, her huge eyes full of pain.
“And just remember,” Mary added, “one day you’ll be a great ballerina. Don’t give up on your dream now, will you?”
“No.” Anna smiled
weakly. “I promise, I w-won’t.”
• • •
Mary watched from her window as Anna followed Elizabeth Lisle into the car, then stood silently as it drove off down the road. Two hours later, Mary was also packed and ready to go. Elizabeth Lisle had already paid her her final salary and, through Mrs. Carruthers, she had secured a room in a boardinghouse in Baron’s Court a few miles away, to tide her over until she’d cleared her head and decided what to do.
Unable to face any further emotional good-byes, Mary left letters on the kitchen table for Mrs. Carruthers and Nancy. She picked up her suitcase, opened the back door and walked out into an empty future.
Aurora
So . . . poor, kindhearted Mary has been thrown out onto the streets by the wicked stepmother. Perhaps she is the Cinderella of my tale—a mixed metaphor in a fairy-tale sense, so forgive me. And Anna—the Little Orphan—not lacking in privilege, but in love, left to fend for herself at boarding school.
Mary’s letters to her prospective mother-in-law, Bridget, which Grania read so assiduously far into the night, ended here. In retrospect, I understand that Mary’s pride would not have allowed her to continue writing home to Sean’s parents.
I know that Grania, on coming to the end of the letters, went to her mother and begged her to tell her what happened to Mary after that. For the purpose of fluidity in the narrative—Reader, I’m becoming rather good at this writing business—I will not bore you with the details of that journey down to the farmhouse, or the cups of tea over which Grania was bound to have heard the rest of the story.
Tea was a big part of our lives at Dunworley Farmhouse.
I rarely drink it these days. It makes me feel sick, but then, most things do.
I digress, again. Now, in any good fairy tale the sad Princess finds happiness with her Prince.
What has always fascinated me is what happens after the “Happily Ever After.”
For example, Princess Aurora from The Sleeping Beauty wakes up a century later. Gracious! Can you imagine? Technically, she is one hundred and sixteen years old. Her prince is eighteen. Which is what one might call an age gap. And that’s before she’s dealt with what would be, even in those days, a very different world one hundred years on.
The Girl on the Cliff Page 14